


I Listen for Returning Feet

by diemarysues



Series: Marriage in the Manner of Dwarves [9]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Dancing, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Sappy, Thorin POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 05:36:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2337089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diemarysues/pseuds/diemarysues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Dance as though no one is watching you,<br/>Love as though you have never been hurt before,<br/>Sing as though no one can hear you,<br/>Live as though heaven is on earth.”</p><p>― Souza</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Listen for Returning Feet

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to alkjira because I promised her a Hobbit-style birthday present and still haven't finished it yet. Sorry bb.  
> This is also dedicated to Becksibee, whose comments awoke a hankering to write this 'verse again.
> 
> Written entirely while listening to sappy songs, and I despair at how vicariously I seem to be living through these dumbs. *sighs* Hope you enjoy.

It has been a very long time.

 

Thorin isn’t referring to the length of their separation; these few months had been torture enough, thank you. He still finds it galling that his Hobbit is still required to leave Erebor for diplomatic reasons, his presence a pacifying buffer between Dwarves and Elves notwithstanding. Thorin rather feels that he and Bilbo are entitled to time to themselves. Like now.

 

But to return to the point, it has been a long time since they’d been in each other’s arms like this. Oh, there had been the coronation, but that had been in public, and they hadn’t spent nearly enough of that night together. There had been a lot of waiting – either off to the side or with someone else –, waiting for Bilbo to return to him.

 

“You are being silly.”

 

“I haven’t said a word.”

 

“Aye, but I know exactly what you’re thinking.”

 

“And _I_ know you feel the same.”

 

“Never said I didn’t.” Bilbo looks up at him, eyes bright and crinkled at the corners. “I’m glad the meeting fell through.”

 

“T’wasn’t so important that it couldn’t be postponed until morning… and I’d much rather spend long hours here in our quarters than discussing the new armours they want to put Fíli in.” They’d shared supper and the dishes have been cleared away. Now the room is lit only by the fireplace and several stray candles. “You keep forgetting to tap your foot, my One,” he admonishes gently.

 

“And your hand should be higher,” is the tart reply. Before Thorin can even think to (reluctantly) move it, Bilbo adds, “Not that I’m complaining, mind.”

 

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to the gold hoop Bilbo still wears in his ear. “You are a wonder to me.”

 

“After all these years?”

 

“Always.”

 

Bilbo disregards the careful product of years of Dwarvish tradition – not unusual for him – stopping and rising to his toes to kiss Thorin. It is Thorin’s duty as Dwarf and husband to still as well, tilting his head so that their lips fit together properly. They have had _all these years_ to practice and this is as easy as living, as natural as breathing.

 

They part with soft smiles and Bilbo drops back onto his heels. “It’s wonderful that you can still amaze me with your words.”

 

“You’ve ruined our dance.”

 

His Hobbit sighs. “Now you’ve amazed me in a different way.”

 

Thorin is not remorseful. “We are supposed to be dancing; you promised me.”

 

“Isn’t my fault that you distract me,” Bilbo snipes. “There isn’t even any music playing.”

 

No, there isn’t. It would spoil the mood, Thorin thinks, if there’d been even one other person in the room. His harp – the one Bilbo had gifted him so long ago – is in the corner, but to go play it would mean breaking free from his husband’s hold. Thorin does not want that. “You were doing well earlier,” he says instead.

 

“I will repeat: you distracted me.” It is pleasing to note that his hazel eyes are filled with mirth rather than true annoyance, though this doesn’t diminish Thorin’s confusion when he pulls away. “I’m a little warm,” Bilbo explains and shakes his head. He’s clearly bemoaning the ‘idiocy’ of his husband, but Thorin isn’t too bothered by this.

 

He’s rather more interested in Bilbo’s hands as they unknot, in Bilbo’s shoulders as they shrug, in the slow reveal of Bilbo’s nightshirt as he removes his robe and folds it over the back of a chair. This offers a lovely view of collarbones and calves.

 

Thorin’s feet are as bare as a Hobbit’s, boots set aside in deference of their _activities_. He flexes his toes as he waits for Bilbo to walk across the carpet and back into his arms. Deciding to be courteous, he puts his hands on Bilbo’s waist instead of wandering lower. That may come later.

 

“Will you sing?” Bilbo asks, cupping Thorin’s jaw in his hands and stroking his thumbs through Thorin’s silver-grey beard. His own curls are more white than silver, and it still makes him beautiful. “Will you sing for me?”

 

“I will do anything for you.” Thorin catches his hand. Gently presses kisses to the backs of slender fingers. “You know this.”

 

Bilbo thumbs the corner of Thorin’s smile. “So sing. And I will dance.”

 

They shift to mirror the other’s stance with the careless ease of practice; facing each other in a loose embrace. This dance is Bilbo’s favourite of all that he’s ever shared with Thorin, not least because it is the simplest of the Dwarven dances. He cares not a whit that it’s usually relegated to less formal occasions; as he’s said many times, Hobbits prefer informality.

 

Thorin thinks that he will enjoy any dance Bilbo does, if only so he has an excuse to hold his husband close. He quirks an eyebrow in a wordless question and Bilbo answers with a smile. They start.

 

“I sit beside the fire and think of all that I have seen,” sings Thorin, keeping his voice soft and lilting, “of meadow-flowers and butterflies in summers that have been…”

 

Bilbo has been blessed with the gift of writing beautiful songs – Thorin, in turn, is blessed to be able to give voice to them. They are complementary in more ways than this but for now all that exists is the crackle of the fire, is Bilbo’s fingers slotted with his, is the love that beats in Thorin’s heart.

 

He has had this Hobbit by his side since Bilbo signed the contract and ran after them. He has had this Hobbit’s heart since they courted and married. He has had this Hobbit for years and years, through Erebor’s reclamation and rebuilding, through his kingship to Fíli being crowned, through the good and the bad and everything in between. He has had this Hobbit and this Hobbit has had him, and Thorin prays there will be many more dances to come.

 

Caught in these thoughts, Thorin misses a step and Bilbo compensates by moving closer. Clever hazel eyes catch his and Thorin almost forgets the words he is singing. “I sit beside the fire and think of how the world will be –”

 

Despite the late hour, neither is tired. They are warm and calm, all worries and duties put away for the night. No one is here to intrude on their time or privacy, no siblings or nephews or friends or strangers. Just him and Bilbo – just them.

 

“…when winter comes without a spring that I shall ever see…”

 

As Consort to a former-King, Bilbo is allowed many beads and pieces of jewellery, each denoting his rank as well as different deeds and achievements, otherwise given to him as formal or personal gifts. Now he wears only the gold clasps Thorin had presented him on their wedding, placing them in then-honey-gold curls; he wears only simple gold clasps and his thin green nightshirt and a gentle smile. Thorin holds that image in his mind.

 

He twirls Bilbo, listening to bright laughter.

 

Soon enough Thorin’s singing has dropped into a low hum and their steps have greatly slowed, leading them in small swaying circles. Bilbo’s free hand slides up Thorin’s shoulder to his neck; he brushes the apple of Thorin’s throat with his thumb before moving to tug on the braid in his beard. Utterly powerless, Thorin leans down as is bid.

 

They kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Old, sappy husbands are my life.


End file.
